Promises Kept, Promises Broken
by irrationalgame
Summary: After the beating at Thirsk fair, Jimmy is struggling to understand his guilt and is plagued by dreams of Mr Barrow's death. In the process Thomas keeps every promise he makes to Jimmy, whilst Jimmy somehow manages to break every promise he makes to himself. Set after the Season 3 CS.
1. Chapter 1

Jimmy woke with a start, his pyjamas stuck uncomfortably to his back with sweat, his cheeks wet with tears he didn't remember shedding. It had been two weeks since 'The Beating' - two weeks since the dreams had started.

_Not dreams_, Jimmy thought, _but rather one very specific dream._

It always began in the same way; he was walking under that bridge, a little drunk but happy, when he was accosted by two large and unkempt men. They meant to rob him, and worse. But in the dream, as in reality, Jimmy was rescued by Mr Barrow. He would just appear at exactly the right moment, stepping in and telling Jimmy to run. But that's where the similarities between the dream and reality ended. That's when things got really bad.

Instead of running to get help, like he had in reality, in the dream (_nightmare_, Jimmy thought) he just watched. He couldn't move, or shout, or _anything_. All he could do was watch as the thugs doled out a beating that was meant for him, as Mr Barrow stared at him, those impossibly blue eyes pleading for him to do something.

Sometimes Jimmy would wake up during the beating, pale and stricken, his hands balled up in the sheets.

Those were the good nights.

On the bad nights the dream would continue; the men would flee, leaving Mr Barrow in a growing pool of his own blood. Only then would Jimmy's feet become unstuck and he would collapse at Mr Barrow's side, grasping his face, shaking him, begging him to just wake up. But Mr Barrow never woke up. He was always cold, dead, gone; his blue eyes clouded and unseeing, his skin grey.

And Jimmy always awoke with silent tears on his cheeks and his heart hammering against his ribs.

_It's just guilt, _Jimmy told himself, _because I let him get hurt. Not that I asked him to get involved, or follow me around like a bleedin' love struck puppy._ Jimmy dragged himself out of bed, crossing the cold floorboards to the basin of water on his nightstand. He stared at his shadowed reflection in the dark mirror, appraising his handsome cheekbones and his ruffled hair. _Or I'm just spooked by the death of Mr Crawley_, Jimmy reasoned. In Jimmy's experience people were liable to drop dead at the most unexpected and life shattering moments, just as his own father and mother had, and Mr Crawley's death had unsettled Jimmy more than he would ever openly admit. It had cast him into the same malaise that affected the rest of the household, upstairs and down.

"That's why it pays not to bother with folk," Jimmy said aloud to his reflection, "then you can't be too upset when they die." Jimmy tried to imagine how he would feel if Daisy, or Ivy or even Alfred were to suddenly pass away. He found it bothered him only a little, which was still more than he'd like. That was the thing about being in service; you spent so much time with other people it was almost impossible to not be dragged into their petty lives. Jimmy had never been one for forming attachments, or for anything more than idly socialising - he'd never had anyone he considered a friend, much less a romantic relationship. _I'm alone because I choose to be_, he thought, _except I'm not really alone any more, am I?_

Jimmy's mind turned to Mr Barrow; they had been getting along well enough since 'The Beating' and Jimmy found he continued to visit Mr Barrow less out of obligation and more because he actually enjoyed his company, now he'd given it a chance. Mr Barrow was funny, in a sarcastic and cutting way, and he made for intelligent conversation. _Not like I've got anyone else remotely interesting to talk to, _Jimmy surmised, washing his face in the basin, the water like ice against his clammy skin. _Talkin' to Alfred is about as exciting as measuring place settings_, Jimmy smirked at his own snideness, _Mr Barrow would have appreciated that_. Frowning at how his thoughts always seemed to circle back around to the under-butler, Jimmy tried to imagine how he would feel if Mr Barrow were to suddenly pass and found there was no comfortable answer; the tightness in his throat, heaviness in his chest and swirling nausea in his stomach surprised Jimmy. _I'm goin' soft, he thought, I'll have to put a stop to it._

Jimmy returned to his cot, irritated and acutely aware that it would soon be time to get up and that it was rather unlikely he'd manage to get back to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes all he saw was Mr Barrow's face; battered and bloodied, his eyes distant and cold. Jimmy sighed, half-tempted to go and check on Mr Barrow. _Only so I can get back to sleep,_ he pouted, _not because I'm actually worried_. He thought better of it - lurking around Mr Barrow's room in the night was a sure-fire way to get accused of being up to something 'unnatural'. And Alfred kept throwing Jimmy accusatory looks already, on account of Jimmy and Mr Barrow being so pally of late.

"I don't know how you can even stand being in the house with 'im," Alfred had sneered, "let alone being his best mate all of a sudden. Maybe you weren't as upset as you made out then?"

Jimmy had, of course, responded with anger and outrage at the insinuation. _Not that I care one hoot about that great oaf Alfred, _Jimmy frowned, _but I just don't want folk thinkin' I'm like Mr Barrow. Because I'm not. I'm not._ Even as he thought it, Jimmy's stomach knotted with guilt and with something else, something he couldn't even begin to think about.

Regardless of his concerns, Jimmy found he couldn't resist calling in on Mr Barrow before breakfast, just to make sure he was feeling alright. _And not about to drop dead, _Jimmy grimaced. He knocked quietly, before softly pushing Mr Barrow's door open and sidling into the room. Jimmy had been in Mr Barrow's room several times over the last two weeks, but he was still always surprised by how much the room was a reflection of the man who dwelt within. On the surface it was calm, practical and tidy to a fault, with little in the way of knick-knacks or personal possessions to give away anything about Mr Barrow. But if one delved into the closet or drawers, they would find an array of letters, books, photographs and trinkets. Mr Barrow's room, just like the man himself, had a surprising depth, bordering on sentimentality.

The sun was barely up and Mr Barrow had the curtains drawn, but Jimmy could make out the outline of the under-butler still prone in his bed. He was so still that in the semi-darkness Jimmy couldn't tell if he was awake.

"Mr Barrow?" Jimmy hissed, tiptoeing over to the cot. Mr Barrow didn't reply and for a moment panic squeezed Jimmy's throat; he tried to make out if Mr Barrow was breathing, but if he was it was so softly that the light rise and fall of his chest was imperceptible in the dim bedroom. Without thinking, Jimmy lay his head on Mr Barrow's chest, and much to his relief he was greeted with the steady thumping of Mr Barrow's heart. Jimmy smiled, feeling Mr Barrow's strong heartbeat reverberate through his head. After a few moments the heartbeat quickened and Jimmy chanced a look up to Mr Barrow's face - he was now very much awake and staring at Jimmy with an expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

"Jimmy?" Mr Barrow whispered, his eyebrows knotting together into a frown, "What're you doing?"

"I was just checking on you," Jimmy smiled, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to creep into someone's room and lay your head on their chest while they were sleeping. _It's a legitimate medical technique!_ Jimmy thought. A little early morning sunlight was now invading Mr Barrow's room - in the half-light his cheekbones looked more pronounced, his cheeks hollowed, his hair as black as a starless sky. His face was still marred with a dozen cuts and grazes, each one a dark line on his pale skin, the contrast making his injuries look all the more shocking. Jimmy reached out to touch a half-healed cut at the corner of Mr Barrow's mouth, his own heart now skipping impossibly quickly, before stopping just short of his red lips. A flush rose In Jimmy's cheeks and he became acutely aware that he still had his face pressed against Mr Barrow's chest.

"...Well," Mr Barrow started, his face now sporting the usual mask of indifference it always wore, "as you can see, I'm fine. So..." He motioned at Jimmy to get up._ He must think I've gone completely insane,_ Jimmy realised, standing bolt upright and taking a large step away from the bed.

"Yes, of course," Jimmy stared at the wall behind Mr Barrow, avoiding anything nearing on eye contact. Mr Barrow struggled to shuffle into a sitting position, grimacing with the pain of a man with broken ribs and a bruised body. Without thinking Jimmy stepped in, hooking his arm under Mr Barrow's armpit and hoisting him up.

"Erm, thank you James," Mr Barrow said with a slight edge, "I can manage." Then, more softly, "Are you quite alright?"

"Of course!" Jimmy exclaimed with rather too much emphasis, "It's you I was worried about, I mean not _worried_, but just concerned, you know medically, just with what happened and with you still being laid up and all and after Mr Crawley went and died so _suddenly_ with no warning or anything and I thought you might need a doctor? Yes maybe we should get Doctor Clarkson to look at you again to be sure because what would we do without the under-butler at Downton? Yes, we really should be _sure_ that you're really _alright_ because Thomas, you just cannot _die_."

"Jimmy," Thomas reached out at placed a comforting hand on his arm, "I'm fine. I'm definitely not going to drop dead anytime soon."

"Do you promise?" Jimmy said, his ever-emotive face drawn into a worried frown.

"I promise," Thomas smiled; a real, earnest smile, the kind that Jimmy was sure was reserved only for him. _He never smiles at anyone else, not properly,_ Jimmy thought,_ but when he smiles at me it reaches his eyes and god, it's beautiful._

"Good," Jimmy nodded, regaining his composure a little, "I'm glad that's settled Mr Barrow. I better be off or I'll be late for breakfast. I'll bring you a tray." Jimmy turned to leave and had his hand on the doorknob before Thomas spoke.

"You don't have to feel guilty Jimmy," Thomas said in a low voice, "and you don't owe me anything. I asked if we could be friends and we are; you don't have to keep visiting me if you don't want to."

"Mr Barrow," Jimmy sighed, opening the bedroom door, "you're wrong. I owe you so very much. I'll be up with your tray soon."


	2. Chapter 2

When Thomas returned to work a few days later, Jimmy worried that things would be awkward. Or different. _And I just want things to be okay with us. Not us. There's no 'us'. Him. _Jimmy shook his head; it seemed his own thoughts were betraying him these days. Thankfully Mr Barrow hadn't mentioned the debacle that had occurred in his bedroom, not even to tease Jimmy about it. If anything, Mr Barrow had been more amiable than ever, and they has spent the next few evenings playing cards in Mr Barrow's room. But Mr Barrow still held an air of discomfort when they were alone together and was ardent in maintaining somewhat of a distance between himself and Jimmy, making sure not to touch him and recoiling as if he had been burned if ever their fingers happened to brush. Jimmy wished Mr barrow wouldn't be quite so standoffish; they were friends now and all that business was behind them. He wanted to broach the subject but found he could never quite manage it.

Despite their apparent friendship, Jimmy's unconscious was still being plagued by the unpleasant dreams, stealing away both his sleep and his peace of mind. The dark circles under his heavy-lidded eyes were rather telling; Jimmy was becoming increasingly exhausted and had struggled to drag himself out of bed this morning. _I don't know what is wrong with me, _Jimmy thought with a yawn, making his way to the servants hall for breakfast, _I've no reason to feel so badly. I just need to act as if everything is fine. Because it really is fine. He's fine. I'm fine. It's fine. _To prove his point, Jimmy made sure to sit right beside Mr Barrow at the table, his elbow knocking softly against the under-butler's sturdy arm as he poured himself a cup of tea. He'd barely had time to lift the china to his lips when Mr Carson entered the servants hall and everyone stood to attention, as was the (_outdated_, Jimmy snarked) custom. Mr Barrow seemed to have a hard time getting out of his chair, so Jimmy pulled him up by his elbow and placed a steadying hand in the middle of Mr Barrow's back. Mr Barrow stiffened at Jimmy's concerned touch, but didn't say anything and gave no indication that he objected to Jimmy's help.

"Ah, Mr Barrow," Carson boomed, a hint of insincerity in his voice, "it's good to have you back with us."

"It's good to be back, Mr Carson," Mr Barrow replied, his smile equally as insincere as Carson's comment.

"Are you sure you're well enough to be working yet?" Jimmy asked, guiding Mr Barrow back into his chair.

Mr Barrow shot him a questioning look."It's only light duties," he replied, "as apparently I'm still not fit to pour wine at dinner."

"And I should think not," Carson added, "in the state you are, looking like you have been in a pub brawl."

Mr Barrow just smiled and reached for the plate of toast, indicating the conversation was over. Jimmy opened his mouth to say something acerbic in Mr Barrow's defence, but thought better of it, instead settling for sipping his tea haughtily. _I'm already in Carson's bad books,_ he thought glumly, _and I always will be if I don't learn to control my tongue._

And it was true of course, Mr Barrow did look like he'd been in a boxing match. Jimmy pretended to study the pattern on his teacup as he peered at Mr Barrow from the corner of his eye, assessing the extent to which his injuries had improved. The cuts and grazes had healed over, leaving little silver slivers of skin etched into yellowing bruises. Jimmy let his eyes wander to Mr Barrow's elegant hands as they deftly spread a thick layer of butter onto a slice of toast; _his hands are so graceful,_ Jimmy appraised, _war wound or no._ Jimmy was entranced - he watched intently as Mr Barrow took a large bite out of the freshly buttered toast and Jimmy's mouth dropped into a delighted 'o' as Mr Barrow's quick, pink tongue flicked out to lick a smear of melted butter from his top lip. _I bet that tongue can do all sorts of wicked things,_ Jimmy gasped, in disbelief at his own thoughts and at how his stomach suddenly felt low and heavy. His leapt to his feet, his chair screeching on the tiles and crashing noisily to the floor behind him. The servants hall fell silent; knives clattered onto plates, spoons were dropped into bowls, teacups paused before parted lips. All eyes were on Jimmy, including Mr Barrow's inquisitive grey ones.

"James, whatever is the matter?" Mrs Hughes asked, her head tilted to one side.

Jimmy couldn't conjure a plausible lie, not with everyone staring. Not when all he could think about was Mr Barrow's tongue and how if he kissed him now he would taste like warm butter. So Jimmy did the only thing he could think of - he turned on his heel and ran, darting quickly down the corridor and finding solace in the boot room. He closed the heavy door behind him, resting his burning forehead against the cool wood. The door smelled faintly of paint, though it hadn't been varnished for months. Jimmy pressed his eyes tightly shut and tried to focus on the smell, to rid his mind of any ill thoughts. _I am going quite mad,_ he sighed, crossing the small room and wearily pulling himself on to the bench, mindless of the danger of staining his livery with shoe polish. Jimmy sat, his head in his hands, for five long minutes, before the sound of footsteps in the corridor roused him from his thoughts. The footsteps stopped outside the boot room; _please don't let it be Carson. Or for gods sake not Alfred,_ Jimmy brooded. The door swung open and it was not Mr Carson or Alfred who stood in the doorway, but Mr Barrow.

"Jimmy?" Mr Barrow said, closing the door behind him, "Whatever is the matter?"

Jimmy just shook his head, wringing his hands in his lap.

"Something is bothering you Jimmy," Mr Barrow leant on the bench beside Jimmy, "and I just want you to know you can tell me. If you've gotten yourself into trouble or something, I can help you. Whatever it is, you can tell me." There was a softness in Mr Barrow's voice and a kindness in his eyes that overwhelmed any residual awkwardness between the two men.

"I'm not in trouble," Jimmy said quietly, "I just...that's the thing Mr Barrow, I don't know what is wrong with me." _Liar_, a voice accused from somewhere deep within Jimmy's mind. _You're in trouble and you know why._

Mr Barrow made to put a comforting hand on Jimmy's arm, but stopped short. "Well, if you figure it out," he said, "you know where I am."

"Can I ask you something personal Mr Barrow?" Jimmy inquired, clasping his hands together so tightly his knuckles whitened.

"I don't see why not," Mr Barrow nodded, his face now infuriatingly devoid of emotion. _You're so good at pretending, at putting on a mask, aren't you?_ Jimmy mused. And it was true, Mr Barrow was almost impossible to read, so guarded was his every word and expression. _Although it slips sometimes when you look at me, and I see just a little of what dwells within._

"How did you know?" Jimmy began, not sure why he was asking such a personal and impertinent question, "That you were...the sort of man you are?"

Mr Barrow was silent and for a moment Jimmy thought he'd crossed an unspoken line.

"I was still a lad really, about thirteen or fourteen," Mr Barrow replied, his eyes fixed of the rack full of boots lining the opposite wall, "when I realised. There were this girl who lived down the road from me, 'bout my age, pretty little thing, and I took to playing with her and her older brother. We was always getting into some mischief and people teased that she had a crush on me and I on her; I imagined that was why I was always so eager to be out with them. Until one day she pulled me behind this big tree on the common and kissed me, right chaste like, we were just kids still, it were nothing untoward. But then, pressed up against that tree with her lips against mine, all I could think about was her brother." Mr Barrow shook his head, "It wasn't like I instantly knew what were up, I had no idea about those sorts of things. But looking back, that's when I realised I was different to everyone else."

"What happened? With the boy I mean," Jimmy said, rather moved that Mr Barrow had confided such an intimate detail of his life.

"I told him I loved him," Mr Barrow laughed, "and we lived happily ever after."

"Really?" Jimmy gaped.

"Of course not," Mr Barrow smirked, "and you have the nerve to call Alfred an idiot."

"Alright, no need to rub it in," Jimmy grinned, then said more seriously: "Did you ever tell your parents?"

"Aye," Mr Barrow nodded, "when I was older, and I went into service shortly after. So I think even you can guess how well that went. But it don't bother me anymore; I am what I am and there's no peace to be had by living a lie or being ashamed of it."

"I admire you," Jimmy murmured, "for your courage. I'm a coward really, and I always have been."

"You're young yet Jimmy," Mr Barrow gripped Jimmy's shoulder for barely a second and then released it, still wary of physical contact. "You'll figure things out. But you'll be out of a job if you don't get back to work sharpish, Carson'll throw a fit if he sees us slacking off in here."

"Right you are Mr Barrow," Jimmy said, making to leave, "and thank you."

Jimmy had thought he might be bombarded with questions from the rest of the staff regarding his peculiar behaviour at the breakfast table, but besides a few concerned looks, no one had mentioned it. Yet the dreams continued and Jimmy was increasingly aware of the way his pulse quickened when he shared a snide comment or a wry smile with Mr Barrow. _I'm just glad we are friends, _Jimmy reflected, _and now I know him better I feel regret at the way I've treated him in the past. It's nothing more that that._

Apart from Jimmy's internal struggles and the odd, mourning visitor to the house, the next fortnight passed without incident and with little else to report; Jimmy and Mr Barrow continued to play cards in the evenings, only now they conducted their games in the servants hall as they both benefitted from the nightly opportunity to thrash Alfred and relieve him of a portion of his wages. Jimmy longed to play the piano, but with the house still deeply swathed in mourning, it was forbidden to even smile too happily, let alone do anything so jovial as rattle out a tune on the piano. Normally Jimmy would be irritated by such tedium, but he understood the situation and actually felt quite badly for the whole family, Lady Mary in particular. Of course, Mr Carson was in a terribly bad mood most of the time, almost as if he was Lady Mary's own father and felt her pain as sharply as Lord Grantham surely did. Thus, Carson was liable to snap at anyone who irked him, and unfortunately for Jimmy he seemed to regularly be on the receiving end of Carson's ire. After lunch Mr Carson had caught Jimmy with his feet up on the servants hall table and had proceeded to give him a thorough dressing down before the whole downstairs staff, kitchen maids and hall boys included. The telling off, lack of sleep and a deep-seated feeling of inner turmoil meant that by dinner time Jimmy had about reached his limit.

"Isn't the savoury ready yet? Jimmy snapped, waiting in the kitchen with an outstretched tray. _It's me that'll get in trouble if it's late and them upstairs are kept waiting,_ he grumbled, _not the dozy kitchen staff._

"It'll be two minutes," Daisy replied hotly, "and you moaning won't make it cook any faster."

"You've been in an awful grump recently," Ivy interjected, "what's up with you?"

"I have not," Jimmy frowned, "I'm just sick of people getting on at me, that's all."

"Well taking it out on us isn't going to make anything better, is it?" Ivy pulled a face that made Jimmy want to hit her with the tray.

Daisy, with a face like thunder, deposited the savoury course onto Alfred's tray first, and then Jimmy's - this minor slight made Jimmy so unreasonably irritated that he had barely taken three steps before he dropped the whole tray down his livery and all over the kitchen floor. Jimmy felt the pinpricks of angry, tired tears behind his eyes. _James Kent, promise me that you absolutely will not cry, _he chastised, but it was no use - tears spilled down Jimmy's cheeks and he turned away abruptly so Daisy and Ivy wouldn't see.

"Good job I made spare!" Daisy said, just as Mrs Patmore bustled in to investigate the commotion. She took one look at the scene of disaster, and at Jimmy's tear stained face, and took command.

"Daisy, fetch Mr Barrow. Jimmy is feeling unwell, I'm sure he won't mind taking his place for a moment." Mr Patmore ordered. "And Ivy, stop gawping and clear up this mess. Jimmy, you come with me. You need a sit down and a good clean up." And with that she dragged Jimmy out of the kitchen and into Mrs Hughes sitting room. "Sit," she instructed, but there was no anger in her voice. Jimmy acquiesced, quietly grateful that Mrs Patmore had rescued him from the embarrassment of having everyone see him crying.

"Thank you," he snivelled, trying to regain his composure.

"Now what's all this about?" Mrs Patmore asked, putting a pudgy, comforting arm around Jimmy shaking shoulders. She smelled like lavender that had been fried and left in a hot oven for days. "It's not like you to cry over spilled milk. You've been out of sorts for a while now, and you look tired."

"I am tired," Jimmy sighed, "I'm exhausted. I'm not sleeping and it's making everything else so much more tedious."

"Not sleeping eh?" Mrs Patmore smiled softly, "Something on your mind, keeping you awake? It helps to talk about it you know."

"If I tell you something Mrs Patmore, will you keep it to yourself?"

"I will," Mrs Patmore replied, "as long as you haven't killed anyone, it'll be our secret."

"You know how Mr Barrow got into a fight at Thirsk fair?" Jimmy studied his soiled livery, wondering what was in that savoury course to make such a big, red stain.

"I remember it well," she nodded, "though how and why Mr Barrow got into a fight is beyond me."

"It was because of me," Jimmy felt tears once again threatening to fall from his already puffy eyes, "that beating was meant for me, but he stepped in and saved me."

"Well," Mrs Patmore declared, "that is something. I've never known Mr Barrow to do a single selfless thing in the last ten years. But I suppose that makes his actions all the more...meaningful."

"It was a brave, kind thing he did," Jimmy sniffed, "and I feel guilty for it, after how I treated him. If I hadn't been drunk and stupid at the fair, it wouldn't have happened."

"But it has happened, and it's no good wishing it were otherwise," Mr Patmore said. "No real harm came to Mr Barrow; if anything it's mended the rift between you. You can't change how you treated him in the past, but you can treat him better in the future. He seems to care about you, for his sins. And that's definitely better than having him against you."

Jimmy smiled, marvelling at the insight and wisdom of Downton's cook. "Thank you Mrs Patmore," he smiled, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve, "I feel better."

"Good," she replied, "now get yourself sorted and upstairs before Mr Carson skins you alive!"

Later that evening Mr Carson certainly made his displeasure at Jimmy's conduct known, but Mrs Patmore rallied to his defence.

"The boy can't help it if he's feeling ill," she testified, "I think he did well to finish serving and not go straight off to bed."

"I suppose so," Carson conceded, "make sure you go to bed early tonight James. I don't want a repeat performance tomorrow." James felt his cheeks flush red and he was glad the servants hall was mostly empty.

"I will Mr Carson," _you miserable old dictator, _Jimmy thought. _After I find Mr Barrow and thank him for his help today._

Mr Barrow was, of course, outside in the courtyard smoking. Jimmy wondered why Thomas would go outside to smoke alone when it was perfectly acceptable to smoke in the servants hall; Miss O'Brien did it. _Maybe he likes the quiet,_ he pondered.

"Mind if I join you?" Jimmy grinned, falling in beside Mr Barrow. Mr Barrow nodded as an answer, blowing a plume of smoke towards the darkening evening sky. Autumn was most definitely setting in and a chill breeze was blowing a few scattered, browning leaves around the courtyard. Jimmy shivered, instinctively moving in closer beside Mr Barrow to shelter from the wind. Mr Barrow took a deliberate step away from the footman.

"You don't have to do that," Jimmy sighed, frustrated. "I'm not afraid you're going to molest me or anything." Mr Barrow flicked his cigarette across the yard and his mask of indifference cracked for a second, revealing anger and pain behind his pale eyes. Jimmy stomach bottomed out; he hadn't meant it like that. "I didn't mean it to come out like that," Jimmy stuttered, "not hurtful like."

"Do I look bothered James?" Mr Barrow countered, the false serenity back on his sharp, handsome face. Jimmy grimaced at the use of his 'proper' name - Mr Barrow reserved that for when he was truly upset.

"I'm sorry," Jimmy said, gripping Mr Barrow's elbow. "I came out to thank you for serving for me at dinner, not to insult you." Jimmy felt his bottom lip tremble a little and Mr Barrow must have caught sight of it as his countenance softened considerably.

"It's alright," Mr Barrow said stiffly, "are you well now?"

"Much better, thank you," Jimmy smiled, still holding on to Mr Barrow's arm. "And I mean it y'know. You don't have to jump back like you've been bitten every time we touch."

"I didn't want to...alarm you," he replied slowly, as if he were choosing each word with extreme caution. He stared at the place where Jimmy's fingers were pressed into the fabric of his sleeve. "Or make you uncomfortable."

"I know," Jimmy mumbled, "but you don't make me uncomfortable." _Quite the opposite really,_ he thought. "I know you'd never do anything I didn't want. I do trust you, Mr Barrow. I'd trust you with my life."

Mr Barrow swallowed hard, unable to look Jimmy in the eye. "Thank you," he said quietly. They stood together in silence, Jimmy's fingers still curled tightly around Mr Barrow's arm, watching the sun set and the first few stars appear, like bright eyes blinking in the blanket of the night sky.

"I'd better get inside," Jimmy shivered, "before I catch my death. Goodnight Mr Barrow."

"Thomas," Mr Barrow corrected, "I think I'd be fine for you to call me Thomas, when it's just the two of us."

"Goodnight Thomas," Jimmy beamed.

"Goodnight Jimmy," Thomas replied.


End file.
